


From Your Grip Breathless

by somedayisours



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 3
Genre: Cannibalistic Thoughts, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Behavior, Control Issues, Dead People, Dirty Thoughts, Fantasizing, Gen, Inner Dialogue, Internal Monologue, M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, Necrophilia, Oral Sex, Post-Canon, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Violent Thoughts, its jason and control, its not really vaas, nothing sexy about this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:54:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29016156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somedayisours/pseuds/somedayisours
Summary: "He knows it wouldn't be sweet like the strawberry syrup, but it'd be saccharine in its own way all the same."
Relationships: Jason Brody/Vaas Montenegro
Kudos: 8





	From Your Grip Breathless

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _After Touching You, I Think of Narcissus Drowning_ by Leila Chatti. I really should have taken the title from Tyler's "She" cause I think of this story every time I hear it.  
> To tell you the truth, this story pretty much died of a thousand cuts.

It's disgusting, really, Jason thinks to himself. The fact that he can't get off to anyone—anything—any more other than the man he'd killed. The man who had murdered his brother right before his eyes.

He thinks of Grant's blood on the hem of his shirt, red-brown like dried tomato sauce. Like the strawberry syrup their mother would cluck her tongue over and wipe from their shirts and their fingers and the corners of their mouths when they were small.

He thinks of being on his knees with his mouth on Vaas' dick, and it makes him sick with how much he wants it. He knows it wouldn't be sweet like the strawberry syrup, but it'd be saccharine in its own way all the same.

Alone with just himself, he stands hunched in the shower with a hand on the tiled wall to support himself, the cold water beating on his back and running down between his legs where he holds himself and pictures a body stiff beneath him. A knife buried to the hilt in the center of it's chest.

He comes to his climax with the image of a slack jaw and dull eyes in mind. He cries afterwards, sticks two dirty fingers down his throat so he vomits. A punishment in hopes he can feel clean afterwards. He never does.

After that, he sits out on the balcony and presses the lit tip of his cigarette against his bare thigh between puffs when his mind drifts to the places he pretends to not want it to.

And again, like a dog chasing its tail, he thinks of Vaas' lips.


End file.
